Striped Tights Poem by John W. McEwers

A house of steak
is a good place to stake
a claim on a muse
whose legs are wrapped
like a barber pole
or a candy cane
in red and white
striped seduction.

It doesn't match
her uniform, but
her form is slim
and the tights would be right,
if only
I were less shy
and had I not been
so terribly hurt
in recent past.

From this angle
I can't tell if
they're stockings
or pantyhose,
but it doesn't matter,
because my steak just arrived.

I'll be writing about you later, Stripes.